


We Fit So Neatly

by skoosiepants



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Dragons, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 13:29:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6755974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles is thirteen years old, he falls in love. </p>
<p>She’s over ten feet tall, with gray-green leathery skin and a plump, yellow belly, bright purple eyes and an ungainly wingspan that makes her topple when she spreads them open too wide.</p>
<p>In the time it takes for the dragon to bury her too-warm muzzle in the palm of his hand, Stiles knows he wants to spend the rest of his life with her.</p>
<p>Her handler is gruff, dark-haired, wide-shouldered, and scowling down at him. He’s got a burn scar running down the outside of one forearm, and the flight vest open at his throat reveals an angry red claw mark on his collarbone.</p>
<p>Stiles maybe falls a little bit in love with him, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Fit So Neatly

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr for the prompt:  
> @mklutz said: Stiles and Derek pern AU- like is Derek the grumpiest person in harper hall? Does he have a beautiful singing voice and a terrible scowl? Or like, is Stiles in charge of the dolphin station once Menolly is masterharper and Derek is a fisherman or idk but dragons
> 
> I don’t know enough about Pern to write a fusion, but I took ‘idk but dragons’ and ran with it. 
> 
> Cleaned up and edited. Title was super close to being “IDK But Dragons” but instead is from Bop Bop Bopbop Bop, a song in the delightful Disney move, Pete’s Dragon.

_A dragon is just one more stranger in search of a friend_ –  
“There’s Room for Everyone,” from Pete’s Dragon

When Stiles is thirteen years old, he falls in love.

She’s over ten feet tall, with gray-green leathery skin and a plump, yellow belly, bright purple eyes and an ungainly wingspan that makes her topple when she spreads them open too wide.

In the time it takes for the dragon to bury her too-warm muzzle in the palm of his hand, Stiles knows he wants to spend the rest of his life with her.

Her handler is gruff, dark-haired, wide-shouldered, and scowling down at him. He’s got a burn scar running down the outside of one forearm, and the flight vest open at his throat reveals an angry red claw mark on his collarbone.

Stiles maybe falls a little bit in love with him, too.

***

A scrabble on the roof jerks Stiles out of a light doze over his desk. He rubs his hands over his face and turns toward the window, watching talons curl over the top of the frame. A long, green snout pushes past the curtains, upside down. She cocks her head and blinks at him—little puffs of smoke plume out as she breathes, sulfur mixing with the damp air of an earlier downpour of rain.

Stiles yawns and says, “Hey.”

Amaryllis twists right-side up and squeezes more of her body through the window, wriggling until her front feet thump heavily down on the carpet. Three claws of one of her back feet brace on the sill—her wings won’t fit through no matter what she does, and she hasn’t been able to squirm all the way inside his bedroom for the past three years.

Stiles watches, bemused, as she stretches out her neck and bumps his shoulder in hello. He holds up his hand and lets her nose bury in the cup of it, wincing only slightly at the stinging heat of her breath.

And then Amaryllis says, “They want me to mate,” in the most petulant voice he’s ever heard from her. Lissie’s a petulant, lovable brat at least twelve hours out of every day, so that’s saying something.

“Huh,” he says, biting his lip to keep from grinning. “And what did you tell them?”

She sighs and slumps dramatically across his floor. “Nothing.”

Of course, Stiles thinks. Because Lissie hates disappointing Derek, and Derek is a gigantic pain in Stiles’s ass. Or his heart, whatever. Ugh. Stiles regrets ever falling in love with him all those years ago, because Derek is a spectacular grump who hates everyone except dragons. That mistake is going to haunt Stiles until the end of his lonely days.

Lissie says, pleadingly, “Will you go back with me and help?” because she’s under some misconception that Stiles can talk Derek out of whatever he wants to do, which has only worked once—when they were going to give Lissie a pet goat, and really that just came down to common sense. Lissie is the sole reason Beacon County isn’t zoned for chickens anymore.

Lissie is practically Derek’s baby, though; if she just talked to Derek about this, like a rational adult, Stiles is pretty sure she won’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to do. Lissie is anything but a rational adult, though.

She looks up at Stiles through her thick fringe of lashes. He’s as susceptible to Lissie’s puppy eyes as he is to Scott’s, so he sighs and says, “Sure, why not.”

*

The Hale Dragon Aviary and Sanctuary spans almost all of the Beacon Hills preserve. Amaryllis isn’t the only dragon who’s figured out how to navigate outside the massive, netted domes without an escort, but the town turns a blind eye to them—it used to be a bigger deal, but then Kate Argent tried to burn down the entire forest. Most people see the dragons that survived that near massacre as a blessing.

After five years, Lissie has finally figured out how to properly use her wings—bony, bat-like things that still dwarf her plump little body. She soars above Stiles’s battered jeep, where just a year ago she’d be clutching to the roll bar, ripping into the metal with her claws as she crouched down and urged him to go faster.

The entrance to the sanctuary is marked with a sign in the shape of a California Blueback, the only dragon species native to the USA. Lissie is a Yellowthroat, one of the many that’s been deemed endangered in the Amazon, so Stiles can sort of see why the Hales would want her to mate.

The problem is, dragons are very _particular_ , and Lissie is more particular than most.

Lissie lands with a barely controlled crash into the bushes at the front of the Hale house—she hasn’t quite stuck the landings yet—and Stiles topples out of his jeep and waits for Derek to show up.

It doesn’t take long.

Five years hasn’t changed Derek as much as it’s changed Amaryllis—he still frowns at Stiles, three hundred shades of disgruntlement shining in his eyes. He still wears an obscenely tight flight vest that shows off all the muscles of his arms as they cross over his chest. His breeches are worn thin at the thighs, instead of sporting extra padding over all the parts that rub against a flight saddle. He’s objectively gorgeous, and Stiles isn’t looking at him in any way objective.

It makes his heart plunge into his stomach to think of how much Derek doesn’t look at him at all.

“Stiles,” Derek says. His eyes soften when he looks over at Lissie. “Amaryllis.”

Lissie nudges him in the side, rougher than she ever has with Stiles, and Derek has to widen his stance to lean back into her. A tiny smile breaks out over his mouth, and Stiles has to blink stars out of his eyes.

It’s downright embarrassing. Stiles clears his throat and says, “So Lissie tells me you’re trying to marry her off.”

Derek’s expression sours and he says, “It’s none of your business.”

“Sure it is,” Stiles says. Lissie always makes all of her business his business; Derek should know this by now.

Lissie says, “I don’t want babies.”

“You’ll change your mind,” Derek says.

Lissie growls, “No,” and, “I’ll eat them if you make me _._ ”

He scratches Lissie behind her ear. “I’m not going to _make_ you,” Derek says. He says it exasperated and fond, and Stiles wants to clasp his hands to his chest and hold onto his melting heart.

Lissie tilts her head and purrs.

*

Although the Hale Dragon Aviary and Sanctuary has been a fixture of Beacon Hills for over a century, Stiles’s first actual face-to-face encounter with any dragon was his first meeting with Amaryllis. It involved a hungry yearling, the apple stand at the downtown farmers market, and a hapless Stiles standing in the way.

He remembers Derek’s dawning look of horror. He remembers Lissie bearing down on him, nostrils flaring. And then she’d flapped her wings, talons scraping across the concrete sidewalk, and tipped over, face planting at his feet. She’d whined up at him, large spiked tail wagging, and said, “Apple?”

It was the single greatest moment of his young life.

And since that fateful day, Stiles has been graced with a visit by Lissie at least once a week, and is expected at the sanctuary at least that many times in return—or she gets pouty.

He’s just super glad Talia approves, because he always gets the impression that Derek is ten seconds away from punching him in the face.

*

Stiles isn’t allowed to ride Lissie, which is tragic. Yellowthroats are usually too small for _anyone_ to ride, though, so Stiles sits at the edge of the largest section of the aviary with Lissie and watches Derek saddle up one of the older, recovering Bluebacks. He crouches down to fasten the wide girth and Stiles notices that the seat of his pants is pretty worn thin, too.

Lissie says, “You’re drooling,” in what she thinks is a whisper but is really, really not.

Stiles glares at her. All dragons are garbage, why does he love her so much?

“You should just ask him to mate with you,” she says, and Stiles feels himself turn bright red and the line of Derek’s shoulders tense.

There’s a fifty percent chance he didn’t hear her, but Stiles’s luck is not that good.

“You’re dead to me,” Stiles tells Lissie.

Lissie tosses her head and snorts. She says, “Maybe if Derek had his own mate he’d stop hounding _me_.”

“Stop talking,” Stiles says, head in his hands. “Just. Stop.”

It’s terrible enough that Derek knows about his intense yearning and is obviously just hoping it’ll go away if he ignores Stiles enough. He’s greatly underestimating Stiles ability to pine from afar.

Lissie says, “They’re bringing me a dragon today.”

The way she says _dragon_ makes Stiles think it’s not just another rescue. “For real?”

Lissie shrugs, one of her wings nearly knocking Stiles over. “Have to try, right?” she says, then looks smug when she adds, “I might bite his head off _._ ”

“You do that, Liss,” Stiles says. He hopes that’s figurative, though, because the last thing they need is one less Yellowthroat in the world. It’d probably be counterproductive to her no kids argument.

The Blueback is three times the size of Lissie, broad at the shoulders, long at the neck, clawed feet the size of Stiles’s entire body. When Derek finally mounts him, Stiles’s heart is in his throat. The flap of his wings blows Stiles’s hair back off his forehead, and he lifts a hand over his eyes to watch them push off and rise, Derek leaning down close to the dragon’s body, gripping the lead with gloves that cover half his forearms.

It’s a magnificent sight, Stiles isn’t going to lie. He sighs and slumps into Lissie’s side, and she noses at his hair in what Stiles chooses to think of as commiseration.

*

The Yellowthroat they bring in is slightly smaller than Lissie, a darker shade of gray, with yellow spikes running along the top of his head, and he bares his teeth at Derek and Cora as soon as he’s out of the trailer.

Lissie says, “I hate him,” and, “He smells like fish,” and then, “Now I want fish, damn it,” all while peeking around the side of the Hale house with Stiles.

His handler, a blond woman in a low-cut vest to rival Derek’s, sporting blood red lipstick and a wicked smile, pats the dragon on the head, deftly moving aside as he swings his mouth toward her to snap.

Stiles can’t tell if he’s that mean-tempered, or if he’s just as angry about the situation as Lissie is.

“C’mon,” says Stiles. “Might as well get this over with.”

*

The blond says, “Hey, handsome,” with a wink, and Stiles looks down at himself, over at Cora and Derek, and then back at Lissie before venturing a tentative, “Uh, hey?”

“And you,” she says, practically crooning at Lissie, “aren’t you gorgeous?”

Lissie cocks her head at her and says, “What’s your deal?”

Her attitude is all Stiles’s fault, he knows this. He tips his head back to avoid Derek’s damning glare.

And then the male Yellowthroat says, “I want to go home, this is stupid,” and tries to eviscerate Lissie with his claws.

*

It’s…something to see, Stiles thinks, watching as Lissie and Damien try to rip each other’s throats out in between screeching at the top of their lungs.

Erica seems to think it’s foreplay, but Stiles is pretty sure, after a mere twenty minutes of acquaintance, that Erica thinks everything is foreplay.

“Are we going to stop them from actually killing each other?” Stiles says. He winces when Damien goes flying through the air to take out the Hale house porch steps. Lissie is too busy roaring in triumph to block his returning summersault into her lower back. “Or before they burn the house down?”

“It’ll be fine,” Erica says, waving a hand. “Damien collects sweaters and has three cats back home.”

Stiles doesn’t see how that helps, but okay.

Erica looks over at him, speculative. Finally, she says, “So you and…” she nods toward where Derek is standing on the porch with a fire extinguisher.

“Uh…” Stiles looks back and forth between them. Derek’s mouth goes from reluctantly amused at dragon-antics to scowly again when he catches Stiles looking. “What?”

Erica leans into his side, wraps an arm over his shoulders. “Oh, come on, you’re in love, he’s in...something, I haven’t quite figured him out yet.”

“You’ve known us for less than a half hour,” Stiles says, horrified.

She taps her fingers on her lips, eyes narrowed. “Let me guess,” she says. “Newly legal?”

Stiles says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Erica says, “You’re so sweet,” and, “If I wasn’t engaged I’d eat you up,” and, “I may eat you up anyway, Boyd really wouldn’t mind.”

Stiles has no idea who Boyd is, but the way Erica is looking at him is downright alarming. And hot. And, you know what, if Boyd wouldn’t mind, how’s Stiles supposed to say no?

*

After a good two hours have passed, all they have are sulky, bleeding Yellowthroats, a ruined trailer, and splintered steps.

And Stiles somehow ends up with a gash down his arm that he’s pretty sure is going to need stitches. “Ow,” he says, swaying slightly on his feet.

Lissie is hovering over him. She says, “Sorry, sorry, Stiles, sorry!” and very carefully keeps her claws to herself. “It was that monster over there; I’ll kill him for you.”

“Please don’t,” Erica says, but not like she’s actually worried it’ll happen.

“I’m fine,” Stiles insists, but then he has to sit down. Right there, in the dirt.

Derek crouches down in front of him and places his hands on Stiles’s knees, warm and heavy. He squeezes them a little and says, “You’re fine,” and Stiles says, “Yeah, that’s what I _said_ ,” and then he passes out.

*

Much to Lissie’s disgruntlement, they don’t send Damien home right away.

She lounges half in and half out of Stiles’s window and says, “He has cats, why won’t they give me cats?”

“Because you’d eat them,” Stiles says, barely looking up from his homework. Lissie eats everything, she’s always ravenous; they thought it was a Yellowthroat thing, but apparently not.

“I’d only eat them if I got hungry,” she says, petulant.

Stiles raises an eyebrow at her.

She drops her head to the floor and languishes as dramatically as she can with most of her butt hanging off the side of Stiles’s house.

She jerks back when Stiles gets to his feet, though, and he throws his hands up and says, “I’m fine,” because she’s been skittish about touching him ever since he got fifteen stitches in his arm.

“You said that before, and then Derek had to pick you up and carry you,” she says.

Stiles refuses to acknowledge that, and instead focuses on how badass his scar is going to be when it heals. He says, “Are they still making you talk to Damien?”

She snorts. “He’s learning how to _knit_.” She slumps down, so her muzzle is nestled between her front claws, and says, softer, “He lives with his mom.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. Lissie was smuggled into the country as an egg, and was rescued just after hatching. The Hales tried, but couldn’t find any of her family—it happens, he knows, when whole colonies are poached.

“He says the seagulls roost annoyingly close to their home every year,” she says. “I hope they peck his eyes out.”

*

The Hale Dragon Aviary and Sanctuary mostly consists of orphaned, rescued and convalescing California Bluebacks and Canadian Redbeaks. Then there’s Lissie, the lone Yellowthroat, and Victor, an enormous Russian Ninetail, so old he’s already nearly turned to stone, a moss-ridden fixture in the middle of the preserve.

No one’s quite sure how he got there; old stories say the sanctuary was built around him, and that he hasn’t moved much since one of his wings was ripped off in the war—which war, Stiles has no idea. He stopped eating well before Stiles was born, sleeps weeks at a time, and only wakes long enough to throw cryptic messages toward whoever is closest. Stiles has never heard him talk before. His voice is like grinding gravel; the ground shakes with each movement of his jaws.

He calls Stiles, “Small boy,” and Lissie, “Gnat,” and tells Derek, “Let me go in peace. Why are you torturing me with children?”

Derek scratches Victor along his boulder-like cheek, and a deep purr rumbles up, Stiles has to grab hold of a tree to keep from falling.

Derek says, “Can you please tell Amaryllis the importance of carrying on her family line?”

Rocks and dirt slide around him as Victor inches his head toward Lissie, one giant, gray-green eye blinking down at her. “Amaryllis,” he says, the gravel giving way to an echoing boom. “Tell them to bloody well fuck off.”

*

Stiles says, “Well, that didn’t go as planned,” as they hike back to the house.

Lissie had wheeled off into the sky, cackling. Stiles is pretty sure Damien will be gone by nightfall.

Derek catches his arm when he trips over a root and almost brains himself—Stiles’s, “Thanks,” is entirely too breathless.

And Derek stares at him, keeps a firm hold on his arm, even when Stiles rights himself on the rocky ground. His eyes are too green and too blue and Stiles has no idea what to say to him. He never really has.

And then Derek blinks and clears his throat and lets him go, saying, “Yeah, well, it was a longshot anyway,” with a shrug.

*

Erica kisses him goodbye. Full on the mouth. With tongue.

It takes a while for Stiles to figure out what’s happening, but then he sinks into Erica’s chest and groans when she tugs on his hair, and only jolts away when he feels a sharp shove in the middle of his back.

Erica licks her lips and Lissie heaves her big head onto Stiles’s shoulder and he has to clasp his hands around her muzzle to stop her from singeing Erica’s eyebrows off. He can tell exactly what that pointed, indrawn breath will be.

Damien, surprisingly, says, “I’ll have Erica write,” and Lissie says, “Tell your mom I said hi.”

She even waves and Stiles watches her, incredulous, out of the corner of his eye.

Lissie says, “What?” and, “He’s going to knit me a scarf for Christmas, I probably won’t even eat it,” and, “Erica says I can visit whenever I want, they go fishing in the _sea_!”

Erica says, “You guys are always welcome,” and holds out her hand toward Derek.

Derek ignores it, frowning, but Erica just laughs.

*

“Derek’s brooding,” Lissie says, leaping Stiles’s lawn in a single bound as he walks to his jeep, keys whirling around his finger. She leaves deep grooves in the earth that his dad will bitch about, and Stiles absently tries to kick the sod back into place.

“Derek’s always brooding,” he says. Derek is non-brooding around dragons, but that’s about it. He pauses. “Wait, Derek’s brooding around _you_?”

“Derek’s _ignoring_ me,” she says, and Stiles can hear hurt and bewilderment in her tone.

Stiles rubs his hands all over her neck until she slumps into him and purrs. No one makes Lissie sad on his watch. He says, “Don’t worry, Liss. I’ll take care of it.”

*

“I hope you’re not mad a Lissie for not wanting to mate,” Stiles says, arms crossed over his chest in a bid to be at least mildly intimidating. Derek’s a hard guy to intimidate. It’s risky, even, considering Derek’s biceps are nearly the size of Stiles’s head, but Stiles is willing to stand up and maybe get punched in the gut for Amaryllis. She’s worth it.

Derek looks up from where he’s sitting on a bench in the tack room, detangling and cleaning riding leads. He says, “I’m not mad at Amaryllis,” like Stiles is insane for even suggesting it.

Stiles doesn’t back down. “Then why are you avoiding her?”

“I’m not avoiding her,” he says. He carefully places the cleaned leather to the side and stands up. He looks a little lost on, “She’s—she thinks I’m mad at her?” and Stiles’s shoulders slump, arms unfolding.

“Yeah, dude,” he says.

Derek shoves a hand through his hair, grimaces at the forgotten smear of saddle soap. He says, “I’m not.”

Stiles believes him. And, god, it’s so pathetic that he thinks Derek’s hot even when he’s not being an asshole. Which is messed up, okay, except Stiles’s perception of romantic love was formed when he was eight and lashed verbally almost daily by Lydia Martin, and then strengthened by the silent disdain of Derek when he was thirteen—his heart has adapted accordingly.

“I’m not the one you should be telling that to,” Stiles says, instead of _take me now_. He’s proud of his restraint.

And then they’re standing there, strangely awkward, because Derek isn’t donning his grumpy-face yet, and Stiles hasn’t accidentally knocked over the entire wall of tack yet, and Stiles doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

He shoves them under his armpits and says, “So.”

Derek ducks his head, half his hair is sticking up endearingly, and says, “So. Have you talked to Erica?”

“Uh. No?” Why would he talk to Erica? Erica kind of makes his balls want to crawl back up inside his body, even though she’s hot like the surface of the sun.

Derek’s face goes pinched. He says, “She kissed you.”

She did indeed. Stiles can count on his one hand the number of times he’s been kissed in his young life, and Erica scares the crap out of him, but he’d definitely rate that kiss as number one on his list, anyway. Stiles reins in his goofy smile and says, “Not that I don’t enjoy a little fear in my love life, but she already has a plus one.”

Derek’s brows wrinkle. “Fear?”

Stiles shrugs. “Lydia Martin has a terrifying brain, and you—” He snaps his mouth shut, but it’s too late. Crap.

Thankfully, Derek’s a little slow on the uptake. He says, “I…scare you?”

Stiles’s mouth decides to go all in, though, and he says, “You look like you want to push me up against a wall and strangle me. I may or may not have a secret asphyxiation kink.” He doesn’t _really_. He doesn’t think so. He thinks it’s more of a Derek’s large hands on his body sort of kink, but he’s willing to explore all options.

Derek either does or doesn’t get it, though, and says, “I don’t want to strangle you, Stiles,” in a half-horrified voice.

Stiles bobs his head. “Okay,” he says. “That’s fair.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder and says, “I should—” _run away_ “—go,” just as Derek says, “Do you want to go for a ride?”

Stiles stares at him, mouth slack.

“Never mind,” Derek says, mostly sheepish, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, cheeks pink above his scruff.

Stiles jerks forward, though, and yells, “No take-backs,” and, “Hell, yeah!” because _oh my god_ , he’s going to finally ride a dragon, how awesome is that?

Derek smiles at him a little and says, “Okay.”

*

Jeff’s a full grown Redbeak who came in with a nasty infection two years ago and then refused to leave. He’s round as a Blueback, but with thicker wings and an underbelly of feathers. His muzzle is sharp with a hook-like tooth on the end, and the crest on the top of his head pops up when he’s startled. Stiles could fit his whole head inside his mouth.

Jeff lets Derek fit him with a saddle and he preens when he notices Stiles standing nearby.

He spreads the peacock spray of his tail and says, “I can do a barrel roll.”

Derek says, “No,” without looking up from the lead he’s buckling across Jeff’s neck.

And then Derek’s in front of Stiles and he’s zipping Stiles’s hoodie all the way up to the hollow of his throat and then he looks into his face and says, “Ready?”

There’s something hopeful and wary and somehow still sort disgruntled about his expression.

Stiles reaches out and takes Derek’s hand and says, “Yeah.”

*

Flying is equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. He has a death grip on Derek’s waist, despite the tether wrapped around his wrist and hooked onto the lead over Jeff’s neck. There’s no actual way of steering; they’re basically at the mercy of Jeff and his promise not to barrel roll. Or dive bomb the community duck pond. Or fly too close to airplanes. Or generally be an ass, which Stiles is starting to suspect is his default personality.

Jeff shouts, “Watch this,” and then Stiles has to squeeze his eyes shut as they dip under an underpass, then shoot straight up into the sky.

Stiles slips a little in his seat. He ducks into the middle of Derek’s back to keep his eyes from watering, and his heart is pounding so hard he thinks he might be having a heart attack.

He’s impressed by the way Derek’s thighs clamp down and refuse to move; it’s unfair, how hot that is.

“This is amazing!” Stiles yells in Derek’s ear when they level out again, the wind nearly swallowing his whole voice.

Derek grins at him over his shoulder—his hair is mussed and his laugh is wild when Jeff shouts, “Hold on,” and does a motherfucking barrel roll.

*

Stiles legs are like jelly: from the adrenaline rush, from using all the muscles of his legs for probably the first time ever. He flops off of Jeff and rolls onto the ground, landing flat on his back.

“Holy shit,” he says, panting. “Holy shit, why have we never done that before?”

“Because you could die and my mom made me promise not to,” Derek says, standing over him. His hands are loose at his sides and his chest is heaving, and Stiles wants to kiss him.

Stiles says, “I want to kiss you,” but most of his words are lost in the harshness of his breath.

“Are you okay?” Derek says, crouching down beside him. His eyebrows are flat with concern, and Stiles wants to thumb all the disheveled strands back into place, and he wants to cradle those wind-burned cheeks in between his palms.

Stiles says, “I want to kiss you,” again, only this time he catches the front of Derek’s vest and tugs him all the way down to his mouth.

*

“Scott says you can’t have babies,” Amaryllis says, pushing her snout through Stiles’s bedroom curtains.

“I bet he just loved that conversation,” Stiles says. He drops his pen and spins around in his desk chair. “No, Liss, I can’t have babies. Thank god.”

Lissie squirms halfway inside and drapes her upper half across his rug and says, “I hope you mate with Derek, anyway.”

“Please tell me you don’t talk to Derek this way, too,” Stiles says, because he’s been on a grand total of two dates with Derek, not counting the flight they took on Jeff—which Talia reamed all three of them out about, and is likely to never happen again, at least not in the near future—and he’s pretty sure talk of mates and babies would scare Derek off for good.

“There’s a Yellowthroat in Florida he wants me to visit,” she says with a growl. “Gregory. From St. Augustine.” She brightens minutely. “Do you think I can eat the alligators?”

“Pretty sure you can eat whatever you want,” Stiles says.

She rolls over onto her back, her back claws bent and hooking into the top frame of his window. There’s an ominous creak, like her wings are scraping off the shutters, and his dad is probably going to make him paint the house again this summer. She blinks at him upside down and says, “You’ll come with me, right?”

Lissie has an under bite. He’s never really noticed that until now, from this angle. Her throat and belly are slowly but surely turning into the golden bronze of adulthood. She has a cracked claw, from her fights with Damien, and her tail seems longer than it was just yesterday; Stiles watches the shadow of it swinging back and forth, doing serious damage to the old oak sitting ten feet from Stiles’s bedroom.

“Yeah, Liss,” Stiles says. “Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes I write stuff on [tumblr](http://pantstomatch.tumblr.com)


End file.
